


As The Clock Ticks To Zero (And Then Rewinds Again)

by puppydeanandjen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Heavy Angst, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Mild Gore, Pre-Series, Pre-Stanford, Realization of Feelings, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop, Young Sam Winchester, repeated deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-14 23:09:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17517590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puppydeanandjen/pseuds/puppydeanandjen
Summary: Sam was barely old enough to shave, but he was raised as a hunter in a family that lost everything to the flames. He hadn’t been too concerned about this run-of-the-mill hunt. Little did he know, however, that this would be the night he died.  But as soon as his heart stopped beating, he woke up in his motel room bed the morning before his death. He thought it was just a crazy, elaborate nightmare... until it happened again.Trapped living his death over and over again, it’s up to him to escape this vicious cycle that continues to chip away at his dwindling sanity.





	As The Clock Ticks To Zero (And Then Rewinds Again)

**Author's Note:**

> For the Sam Winchester Big Bang. Thank you to all the mods who put in so much hard work to make this event possible! You guys are the best!
> 
> I'd like to thank my beautiful artist, Aru, who did such a gorgeous job on the cover art which you can find [here](https://yorugolden.tumblr.com/post/182303424733/art-master-post-for-as-the-clock-ticks-to-zero) that I legit just became a huge keyboard smash. 
> 
> Also, mad thanks to my beta, [Gigi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiGiS89), who went through my inconsistent mess of a first draft and shaped it up properly, so it'd actually make some sense and fixed all my horrid grammar mistakes /sweat smile and to [TigerLilyNoh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerLilyNoh/pseuds/TigerLilyNoh) who helped me come up with the summary and also went through my fic during the time I had sincere doubt about the quality of this piece. I really couldn't have done it with you two.
> 
> All other mistakes are on me! I hope you guys enjoy!

Over the past years, Sam has familiarized himself with the word ‘goodbye’; the real goodbye where no ‘see you laters’ are in sight. The kind that forces him to disappear in a wisp of carbon dioxide; then he has to reboot himself, forget the ones he’s left behind to continue on and start out fresh.

And it’ll be no different today. But this time he won’t have to sever connections again.

Simple salt-and-burn. A little girl ghost roaming around the forest accompanied by a few missing persons cases. At least, that’s what he’s picked up from Dad’s call three days ago. Plus, Dad told them that they’re going to finish up tonight, so he won’t have time to make new friends.

It’s something to think about while he neatly prepares his school materials into Dean’s old backpack from when he was still in high school two years ago since Sam’s last bag had snapped. “Of course, you’d break your bag by carrying too many books, nerd,” Dean had said, chuckling over the demise of Sam’s backpack as Sam began to inspect the gigantic hole at the bottom. “Jerk,” he had retaliated without much rancor.

He doesn’t rush the job, doing it as meticulously as possible since he has the time. It only takes about five minutes to drive to his temporary school and Dad’s out interviewing suspects, gathering more materials and clues, while Dean is getting breakfast.

Just as he finishes packing up, there’s a click of the lock that shifts his attention over towards the door.

It’s Dean, carrying a white bag that contains a sweet, heavenly scent that engulfs the entire room until it smells like a goddamn bakery.

“Freshly baked muffins, Sammy,” Dean says with a cocky smirk as he waves the bag in front of Sam. “Sweet talked the cashier into giving them to me for free.”

There’s a slight churn in his gut at those words, but Sam dismisses them for hunger. Besides, the aroma of blueberries is fucking intoxicating right now, compared to the Kraft Mac & Cheese and plain Cheerio combination that he’s been having for the past week

Sam sits at the table and watches as Dean follows him, placing the bag down on the wood, and snatching a pastry for himself before sending it over to Sam who does the same, wasting no time biting into it.

Fluff and warmth and blueberries burst in his mouth, overwhelming his taste buds. Worries dissipate under the heavenly flavor.

Then Dean’s moaning into the pastry and Sam’s attention turns to him, staring at the euphoria that bleeds through his brother’s face. Another kind of warm begins to fill him as he watches.

Dean peeks up from the muffin and, suddenly, the magic is gone. Sam’s gaze flickers away from Dean so quickly that his sight blurs for a second as he takes another bite.

“Oh yeah, I’m going to be hustling people at the bar to see if I can get us some extra cash since our last two credit cards were canceled, so you’ll have to walk back today,” His brother nonchalantly tells him, unaware how flustered Sam’s mind right now. Sam nods in reply, not trusting anything coherent to come out from his mouth.

The brothers exchange a few quips between bites, but it’s otherwise silent. Yet the lack of noise forces those unacceptable thoughts into the spotlight as he continues to observe his brother lick crumbles from his fingers.

Sam tries to suppress that fluttering inside him.

\--

Tugging out the knife lodged in his stomach, Sam grits his teeth to bear the pain that buzzes through every nerve in his body. Grass prickles against cut skin, crimson from his blood-soaked arms paint the greens below him as he flips himself over on his belly. A chill breeze glides past him, whistling into the quiet night where all voices are swallowed into the abyss. But he tries anyway, only achieving hacks of gurgling liquid onto the ground that dyes itself in deeper shades of Sam. Panicked pupils begin to search for the attacker that seems to have disappeared into the lush of the gloomy forest that’s only illuminated by lights from the moon.

Every inch of him hurts like hell.

He’s dying. Fucking knows he is. Stupid. Making so many stupid mistakes to lead to this. He’d lost Dean in the wild forest while they were uncovering the little girl’s missing body under thick layers of soil-the location shown on the map Dad had rolled out on the table before the hunt. Then there was the mysterious rustling in bushes and, before he knew it, his feet had wandered towards the noise, shakily lifting the crowbar in his sweaty hands as he swept the area.

And, instead of illusions or monsters, he finds a crying child in the darkness that transforms familiar figures into unrecognizable ones. There’s pleas of lost parents on their lips, only been able to use tears as a guide to find their mommy and daddy. Harmless. Yet as Sam inches closer, he ends up stepping on squishy, wet skin that resembles that of a-

_Shapeshifter_

Before he realizes it, there’s a gun being pointed at him and smoke rises while Sam’s eardrums burst as he falls to the ground at the sharp pain in his knee. Then the glint of a knife reflects in his eyes; the only warning before lowering to decorated him in the reds that pulse through his own veins, stabbing close to his heart but never puncturing it. It skips away when finished with giggles spilling out of its mouth like a creepy, sadistic doll.

He was too naive and now he’s paying the price.

Shit, he has to find his brother. Dean will know what to do.

The image of his brother flashes in his mind; he can imagine the relief in Dean’s expression, teary eyes that Sam would want to wipe away with bloody hands. Dean would patch him up like he always did, admonishing him with reprimands that hold bits of love between the anger. “Don’t do something stupid like that again, bitch,” Dean would tell him, gentle fingertips searching for even more wounds. “I won’t,” Sam would reply, hiding the smile that grows under the tenderness that his brother emits.

That motivation sears through every molecule of his being.

One of his hands grips onto the dirt below, fingers jabbing themselves into the soil to get a better hold as he drags his body forward. His vision fades in and out in blacks and browns, breathing ragged as the crawling saps his strength. He doesn’t know how much farther he can go, but he keeps going.

Because Sam doesn’t want to die at the mere age of sixteen, not when he didn’t even get to fulfill his own dream. As a young child, he said a firefighter to be cool. A little older him had said what his brother and father do. The him now says ‘I don’t know’. That indecisiveness opens so many options other than the ones his family laid out for him. A life other than hunting. Maybe, that’s what he really wants.

A chance at normalcy.

He’ll keep moving for that, for Dean too. He’s not ready for that final goodbye.

Yet that idea doesn’t keep the blood from pouring out of him. Doesn’t stop heavy lids from slumping down until they shut.

He doesn’t realize when his world turns dark.

\--

Eye flying open, Sam shoots up from the confines of white sheets in a panic. His body tingles in fear and pain while he gasps for air, sweat trailing down his forehead. Hands trace over himself in search for cuts that should definitely be there, finding nothing except for baby- smooth skin.

Sam’s trembling, scanning the motel room to find that he’s alone. Safe and secure inside the four walls where every gap is filled in with salt to repel any enemies that may come after them. A weapon stored underneath his pillow-a pistol that Dad gave him after he completed target practice: ten hits, perfect score.

The sound of his heart beats tight against the chest and reverberates loudly in ears, slowly steadying as it becomes clear that there’s nothing to be worried about. He plops himself back onto the bed-mattress spring creaking while doing so-and stares into the ceiling above.

What the hell was that nightmare?

Exploring the woods near dusk for the grave. Creepy little girl appearing in front of him. Him bleeding out onto the dirt. Sure, he’s had death dreams before. Hell, he has them almost constantly, especially right after a pretty gruesome hunt.

But this one, it just seemed so real; the agony pulsing through him as the bullet cracked his ribs and the knife dug into the flesh of his legs. He felt it all and he’s still sore in the places he should be hurting. But there’s no wounds or anything.

They’re still in the same place, he figures out as he looks out the window: a small town in Washington, staying in a room at Sunshine Motel that has a dingy, red fluorescent sign with the n, i, and e of said sign broken to illuminate ‘Sushi’ instead. Something that Dean pointed out while Dad parked and ordered them to shuffle their things out of the car in three minutes flat or no TV for the night.

So it’s probably just a dream. Has to be because then why would he be alive?

A twist of the knob rouses him from his thoughts to see Dean-dressed in the usual attire of flannel that seems to be passed down from generation to generation in their family-entering inside with a white bag in hand that suspiciously smells like...

“Muffins?” Sam asks while he swings himself off the bed to meet his brother, raising a brow at the exact same paper bag that he’d seen in his dreams.

“Yeah,” Dean replies, familiar cocky smirk dressing his face. Cheeks puffing up like a happy squirrel. “Sweet talked the cashier into giving them to me for free”

Sam’s eyes widen at that. Throat going dry as Dean’s voice echoes in his head, swirling in a spiral that only leads down. _He said them,_ the exact words from his dream. It’s only the last sentence, although, so maybe he’s in the clear. Maybe, he’s just experiencing some weird deja vu or something. Nothing to worry about. Right? God, he hopes so. Since all these events will eventually lead to his-

There’s a hand clasping around his shoulder, startling him back into reality. It’s Dean. Concern is written all over his face with furrowed brows and tight lips and deep wrinkles on youthful features.

“Hey, Sammy,” his brother says and Sam wants to wipe the tension he sees in Dean’s face away. “You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m-I’m good,” Sam says, sitting in a wooden chair near the table as he stares at Dean expectantly. “Let’s eat before they get cold.”

His big brother nods to that, setting the bag down, and seats himself on the other side.

“Where’s Dad?” Sam asks, hoping that he isn’t investigating right now.

“Digging around for some clues,” Dean mutters much to Sam’s chagrin while a hand shuffles inside the bag to grab one of the muffins, sliding it over to Sam when he’s done.

It must be a coincidence, right? Dad usually does this; a workaholic tendency to simply finish the task as fast as he can because stationary hunters are easier to track down. That must be it. Has to be it.

“You sure you’re okay, Sammy?” Dean asks, waving a hand in front of his face. His cheeks are puffed up with the spongy cake, grin wide. Sam doesn’t think about how cute it is.

Instead of answering, Sam mumbles, “I’m not hungry,” and stands up, heading over to the bathroom, and shutting the door behind him before Dean can say another word.

\--

Five hours. It’s been five hours since he’s woke up from a dream that doesn’t seem to be a dream anymore.

Predictions have been becoming reality left and right: the television report announcing the chance of unexpected cloudy weather today, a nerdy freshman girl tripping on her own foot in the hallways as a group of pretty girls laughed at her, a bunch of kids huddled around a poster for the spring musical audition as a boy at the end of the crowd says “Lindsay is probably going to get the lead role again.”, teacher’s lesson plans included everything that they taught before. And through that experience, Sam realizes it wasn’t just a fantasy that his unconscious brain plotted.

However, there are things that don’t come to pass. Like how he ends up raising his hand when the teacher asked for a student response instead of ignoring them to ponder about the ghost they were hunting or how he perfectly catches an incoming football during P.E. that hit dream him directly in the head. Sam responded differently because he already knew they would happen.

This change in response creates ripples in the lake known as time. These ripples are a whole new set of moments that occur because of alteration in the initial event like the praise he received when he caught that ball, instead of the disdained glares when he didn’t.

He wonders what would happen if those waves became larger.

\--

It’s pretty easy to avoid your death when you know the series of events that trigger it. Simple answer: don’t leave the room after school. Easy as that.

So, why does he find himself lying on the street? Entire body aching and burning, right leg numb and unmoveable. His ears ring in a screeching high pitch noise that mutes the sounds surrounding him. His breathing becomes shallower with each inhalation, ribs poking right at the lungs every time they attempt to fill with air. His sight is filled with blurry, grey shapes that contort and swirl into blobs. Then there’s a touch of crimson that streaks straight downward. He can feel the liquid trailing down his forehead and onto the asphalt below that rubs roughly against his head. And shit, he’s going to die again. Isn’t he?

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t even see the truck coming when he crossed. Should have paid more attention. All this avoidance of death has led him right to it.

Someone is shouting-a voice that he knows so well from years of always being next to him-but he doesn’t recognize the syllables. He attempts to decipher the words, but they slowly muffle themselves under the drowsiness that overcomes him until all that’s left is silence and a lurch backward.

\--

When Sam opens his eyes to the same damn ceiling again, all he can do is cuss to himself. Pain from the possible future remains on his skin, reminding him that everything he’d experienced isn’t a figment of his wild imagination.

This is reality and he has to figure out how to survive it.

\--

It takes four more tries for Sam to realize that ripples are much bigger than he once perceived them to be. That he has to play his part flawlessly to match the original day in order for the universe to not eliminate him. He’d discovered as much when he decided to check out the school library during school to learn about time creatures, rather than return to the hotel room as in the original dream, only to have piles of books to fall upon him, crushing his bones and suffocating him to death.

The more he deviates from the original path, the sooner he dies.

Makes sense since the steps that he’d taken on the first try seemed to be on the right path considering that he’d died towards the end of the day instead of right away. Just has to hop the thread somewhere onto another thread that doesn’t cut off today. It’s more like skips than hops, although; quick skips upon those stable ripples to create a whole new path that would lead to a different destination-the next day-, but he hasn’t figured those out yet.

That’s why he can’t explain to his family what’s going on because that knowledge could cause him to sink into the abyss.

Which means that he’s got to figure this out by himself. He can do that: break this curse or defeat this monster or whatever. He’s a Winchester after all.

\--

By turn twenty, he realizes why people get so tired of their existence. It only causes misery loaded with a heap of suffering. Tough in every possible way as it forces him to freefall down into a pit of despair.

Though maybe, that’s just him; he’s exhausted from it all to the point where life doesn’t seem to be worth it anymore.

Can you even become fed up with a death that’s never happened?

Maybe if he shoots himself, his soul will rise to the afterlife and not this horrible, fictional reality. To the Heaven that nobody in his family believes in.

But suiciders go to Hell. At least, that’s what he’s heard in the churches that their hunts sometimes take them.

Sam doesn’t want to find out what eternal damnation exactly calls for-the unknown being scarier than anything-, but it must be better than what he’s going through now.

Right?

He reaches for the pistol underneath his pillow, heart thumping at every movement. There’s determination in his gut, begging for release from this world that seems to love tormenting him.

Yet when he brings the gun up to his head, he can’t find it in himself to pull the trigger.

—

Sam awakens to the sound of nothingness, pupils adjusting to the pale ceiling above as he vividly recalls the events that occurred yesterday.

Or is that today?

He doesn’t know anymore, just that he’s living once again.

How many times has it been?

Forty-one, maybe.

He closes his weary eyes hoping that he’ll just tumble back down into darkness, breathing shallow as watergates split apart under the strain of the image stream of future memories colliding into the structure that he erected to protect himself from becoming insane.

The image stream plunges him down the windy road of the past turn and he relinquishes all control to it. Memories devour him again, causing him to fall back into the pit as he begins to recall his last loop.

Sam felt strange the morning of turn forty, frustration seeping through him while he tried to figure how to escape the confines of fate that seemed intent to tear him apart while something prevents that exact thing to happen. Clashing as if they were opposite sides of a war and he’s the collateral damage in between.

Dean must have noticed and shown up after school, offering a ride home even though he was supposed to be at the bar today. Those smirks are disguises for worry. He knows that. But Sam knows the path that this choice would lead to.

So he said no, brushes him off, and leaves scorches in his own heart. Dean’s persistent though with the “C’mon Sammy, it’s a free ride”, following after him as Sam trudged down the sidewalk, consistent drilling pounding in his ears from construction site beyond the metal fence beside him.

“Why don’t you just leave me alone, Dean?!” Sam spat out, twisting back to glare at his brother, but the words are blocked out by the reverberating creaking noise overhead and deep voices shouting to “Move!”.

Too late.

Eyes shoot up to see metal bars flying through the sky directly above as they plummet to the ground like raindrops. He spots the slivers of bright orange atop the bare pillars of grey and a crane that points high mighty to the sky with a loose, snapped chain hanging precariously from it before something rips through him, shoving his torso forward yet keeping him still. His body shudders at the weird invasion like electromagnetic shocks had been directly applied to his nerves. He glances down to find a bar punctured through his chest as the blood begins to seep into his shirt around the intruding metal, grounded into the sidewalk below him.

Not again.

It’s different this time, although, watching as Dean’s eyes go wide, greens dazzling in the gloomy glow of the sky, as shock and horror befall him. Sam’s name being spilled from the lips as they scream in an attempt to rescue him. There’s a sharp pang in his chest that isn’t from the pole that’s thrusted into him. Heat pools inside of him as the seconds pass like minutes.

Dying might have initiated it, but it’s that expression that killed him.

That’s why he has to live. For Dean’s sake.

The click of the door startles Sam out of his thoughts, shifting them over to Dean who’s just shuffled his way inside with a bag and a joyful expression that lights up Sam’s heart; the happiness spreads to him like a contagious disease that aims to trick him into grinning. He prevents it, though, from breaching the surface because he has to get it right this time.

Or he’ll have to bear witness to the Dean’s sorrow again and he’d do anything to avoid that.

So he wears cheerful curiosity as if he were strapping on a mask, swinging himself out of bed.

“Freshly baked muffins, Sammy,” Dean says with a smirk.

\--

And he tries, again and again, and again, to achieve perfection and perfection is never easy.

“Dammit!” Sam exclaims to himself one of the mornings-he’s lost count already as he found it more grueling to actually keep it-, rapidly stumbling to his feet. “all wrong. All wrong,” He begins to pace around the room, retreating back towards the bed. Heartbeat resounding in erratic pumps in his ears. How stupid? _How stupid?_

He’d bitten his cheek in the process of chewing the muffin and now it’s done for. Going to die any second now. Didn’t get it right. _Why can’t he get it right?_

There are hands gripping onto his shoulders, forcing him still, and he finds himself face to face with his brother. Dean’s expression is scrunched up with eyes blown wide in obvious fright at Sam’s sudden snap.

“What happened?” Dean asks, searching him for answers that can’t be seen on the surface. He won’t find it. “Are you hurt? Sam, talk to me.”

“No, no,” Sam replies, thrashing in his brother’s hold because he needs to get free: save Dean from the ticking time bomb that is himself. Grasping onto his big brother’s shoulders, he gathers his strength into shaky hands and pushes Dean away. “You don’t understand. I’m going to die.”

Terror is exemplified in Dean, staring at him for a moment before tugging him into a tight hug.

“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

It lingers in the hush of the quiet morning and Sam feels something that he hasn’t in a while: ease.

—

Dean’s patient, fiddling with his some weapons while he sits, allowing Sam-who’s curled into a ball at the edge of the bed-the peace that he needs to calm down. Only a matter of when Sam takes that final breathe now, but at least he has his brother who kind of understand the struggles that he’s been living through. Might help if Sam actually told Dean what was going on.

“T-tonight in the woods,” he says, shivering in the heated room, and Dean’s head swerves towards him. Ears pay heed to each word that slips out of Sam’s mouth. “I’m going to be killed by a shapeshifter. The supposed ghost we’re hunting.”

“But shifters can’t change into the dead.” Dean’s brow furrow, setting the disassembled gun parts on the table as he walks over to where Sam is.

“Probably touched the kid and then murdered them,” he bluntly replies, unraveling as he allows his legs to flop down against the bed. His brain is searching for more details of the case, but he realizes that he can’t recall any of it. Was it a boy? A girl? Name? “You believe me right?”

Desperation rises in his voice because _fuck_ he’s losing it already; the fragments of Sam Winchester are slipping from his grasp and each one that he tries to gather rip through the flesh of his palms.

“Of course,” Dean says. “I’m not going to let anything hurt you.”

For once, Sam trusts him.

\--

When his brother tells him that he has to step out for a moment, Sam panics because he knows that once that door closes, his luck will turn sour. He screams and cries and begs for Dean not to leave. He’s being annoying-he knows that-, but he desperately wants to see the next day. See the future. Out of this horrid cycle.

And Dean’s pampering him, whispering words of hope into his ear with kind expressions that Sam doesn’t deserve, but he’s selfish and so goddamn tired of fighting. Of being alone.

If he wasn’t so fixated on Dean, he would’ve noticed the shadows in the window, grappling each other in a frenzy with weapons in hand. Doesn’t hear the gunshot until it shatters the glass and pierces through his head.

The last thing he hears is the distant cry of “Sammy!” and Sam makes a promise right then and there.

Next time, he’ll make it for sure.

\--

He plays out the series of events perfectly six times after-counting again-finally making it back to the motel without a single scratch on him.

A relief, he supposes, but now he’s venturing into new territory. The last chapter of this neverending day. An end that he’s supposed to evade as it results in his own grave and the cycle will start over again. Which means that he has to change something to create a different path that’ll allow him to see past this day.

Maybe, he can take a greater risk. Do what he initially planned: not go.

When he enters the motel room, Dad’s already back in their room-they started to rent out two after the growing boys couldn’t physically fit in one bed without ending up in a flurry of tangled limbs. He’s talking to Dean about the case at the table and Sam silently rushes past them to place to his backpack down near the dresser.

Victim’s name is Nancy Harvell; Dad concludes after finding a match between the image of the poltergeist and a child that went missing many years back. Body never found and the parents were devastated by the death of their only daughter. The woods were marked as dangerous after that incident.

He thinks about telling them the truth-about the shapeshifter-, but he’s not sure if he can since he’s planning to take a huge risk. Because maybe that could be the factor that results in the tear of the thread. Cause his plunge into the hands of death. Sam’s sure they’ll figure it out; Dad’s smart and Dean’s intuitive with those combined skills they can solve anything.

“Sam, Dean, we’re going,” Dad says as he finishes up stuffing some of their extra supplies in a duffle bag for the hunt.

“No, I’m staying,” Sam states, high and proud. He doesn’t have anything to fear anymore, not after conquering his worst fear already. Dual expression of shock meet him, but his father’s contorts into anger.

“What did you say?”

“No,” he replies simply as if it were clear from the beginning.

“C’mon Sammy,” Dean says, breaking out of his surprise and reaching towards him. Sam jerks away from his clasp.

“I don’t want to do this anymore.” As soon as the words spill, Dad is rushing up to him and clutching onto his shirt, forcing Sam to glare upwards. Sam’s never seen his father so furious before, yet he doesn’t back down. His limbs are almost skin and bone as the growth spurt drained Sam of muscle, but it left all the height with him. That’s his only advantage and he applies it, trying to size up his own father up.

For some reason, it works. Dad shoves him away and recedes to the door with a tick.

Then Dean squints at him in confusion before stating that they’re leaving and to call if there are any problems. He replies with a simple “yes, sir” and a flippant wave.

There’s a click and tension that he doesn’t even realize that he had released.

It’s the right thing to do-not go-, but his instinct tells him the opposite. That he should’ve gone with his family. Shouldn’t have defied anyone.

Sam doesn’t ponder that for long; he’s got bigger problems to fret about.

The mystery of himself. This case.

Why did he return to the past after dying? Is this some sort of weird resurrection?

Surely, that isn’t true because then there would be more witness accounts of having ‘risen from the dead’ all over the internet. Then what? Why is this happening to him?

Answers lead to a bundle of questions that he doesn’t even know how to answer with the knowledge that he has now. It’s making his head hurt, so Sam starts over with the basics.

He was supposed to die today, in the woods, stabbed and shot to death by a shapeshifter. But he’d woken up that morning as if someone had hit a restart button the moment he had perished. Then the cycle repeated and kept doing so whenever he did. Like an outside force wasn’t allowing him to pass on, no matter how much he desired so.

And he doesn’t, not anymore. Still doesn’t even after all this pain that’s been leaving invisible marks over him.

He’s not going to take that final breathe because there’s still so much worth living for. He can try for an apple pie life that his family continues to despise.

But, most importantly, there’s Dean.

The single light that been illuminating the road, guiding him down it-teaching him how to ride a bike, praising him on a math test that he received a perfect score on, comforting him when they had to leave friends and crushes behind-: his own guardian angel. If Dean wasn’t there, Sam wouldn’t know how to survive. How to breathe in the oxygen that circles through his organ, keeping him alive, because that’s what Dean is to him: the essence of his life.

But it isn’t exactly that either. Something more than that, continuing to flourish within him in waves that he can’t contain. Makes his heart swirls in ways that he’s never felt with another person. Mysterious, yet comforting.

No, he should focus on the topic at hand.

There are other questions that need to be answered, things that he should check off to understand because then he’ll have control over it.

So Sam does what he does best, he pulls out a book, plops down on the bed, and learns.

\--

There’s books spread across the bed on creature lore and witchcraft that they carry around for reference, when the door slams open with a bang. The book in his lap jumps at the noise as his head swerves to the door to spot a figure in the shadows of the night outside world. Dean.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam says while Dean approaches silently, irradiated by the lamp that lights up the entire room. “How did the hunt go?”

His eyes trail downward to find a vaguely familiar bloodied knife in hand and a silver gun. The same one that had killed him last time. Lids widen in the realization, stomach churning in all the wrongs ways, and the thing _smiles_. All hungry and creepy and nothing like Dean at all.

_Shapeshifter._

Chucking the book at the thing wearing his brother’s skin, Sam reaches under his pillow for the pistol while sliding off the mattress, ducking himself behind the bed. He peeks out and aims like his father had taught him, trembling hands firing the gun. The bullet pierces through the flesh, hitting the shoulder instead of the heart as he had hoped to hit; the thing flinches only for a second before grinning wider. Chills run through Sam’s spine and he’s shaking in his own skin. He’s frozen. A deer stuck in the headlights, but then the creature is pouncing on him and Sam is fighting for his life.

The cool touch of metal stops him from his struggle. The thing is behind him now, one hand pinning Sam’s wrist behind his back.

Knife digs into the thin layer to reveal the artery that lies underneath before slicing in deep as crimson invades his vision spurting out of him, all over the white sheets.

It goes dark after that.

\--

Sam wakes up with the revelation that what if this is his own doing?

Nothing in the books he’s read have anything to do with dying and waking up again. There’s a few gods and monsters that are able to reverse time, but that’s about it.

He’s somehow reviving himself and that explains why it only occurs after the end.

But why and how?

Sam doesn’t know the answer to that.

\--

Replays aren’t exactly like rewinding a tape to the beginning because there’s a single detrimental factor that remains stagnant: his memories.

These memories are ridges that are easy to trip over because they overlap with the recollections of the first loop which allow him to live just a little longer. This includes the small details: if he steps on a crack, if he quirks his lip a bit too high, if he slips on a word. An annoying and tedious procedure. On top of that, each time he fails in achieving the final goal, the higher the percentage of failure increases since he simply can’t recall what the correct motion was at that moment as time continues to repeat itself, boggling his mind’s cognitive approach.

That’s why it takes him several more cycles to find himself on that same path again. Back in the motel room, safe and sound for once.

Now, what’s ahead is the unknown except for the one major decision that determines his extended life.

“Sam, Dean, we’re going,” Dad says, shuffling the duffel bag over his shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” the boys reply in unison.

\---

They break off into teams with Sam and Dean tackling the remains while Dad distracts the ghost, keeping in contact with walkie talkies. While Dad broke down the details, Sam was able to sneak silver bullets into his gun to fend against the shapeshifter.

Silence is strange in the dark as the slightest noise can trick the mind into seeing vivid illusions, to mistake harmless shapes for danger. Dean is leading while Sam follows behind with his grip tight against his shovel scanning the area for the target as he does. Awareness is important in hunts; one unnoticed area could be deadly. It’s the first thing that Dad taught them.

Leaves hang low, ducking when they come near them. Sam can hear his own heart pounding against his chest as he delves deeper into the vast woods towards the supposed site of where the girl’s body had been hidden. Easy to track based on murder reports that all seemed to triangulate around one specific area. Dean glances back-calm because he’s not the one stressing over survival-at him for second before twisting around in a singular motion.

“You alright there?” His brother asks, crowbar swaying in his hand, with a smirk that appears as the stars begin to bloom. “It’s just a simple salt and burn. No sweat.”

Sam’s about to speak, but a chill puff of smoke rises from his mouth while the air suddenly decreases in temperature. That’s not right. It’s not supposed to be a ghost. But the vapor says otherwise.

He doesn’t hear the shout until he’s being shoved to left, falling to the ground, and Dean’s taking a swing at something with his weapon. A white wisp left in its wake.

“C’mon, Sam.”

Dean hauls him up to his feet, pushing him forward, and they both bolt back where they came from. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, jumping over logs and stooping under branches as he runs. Fuck. Shit. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Dad, it’s here!” he can hear Dean shout from the rear. Then his brother is yelping and Sam turns to see Dean being levitated in the air and smacked directly into the tree, falling limply against the bark.

“Dean!”

Sam dashes towards his brother in a panic, pulling Dean into his embrace. Dean’s eyes are closed, but Sam can still feel Dean’s pulse when he presses his fingers into Dean’s wrist.

Still alive. Still breathing. There might be smoke bleeding from Sam’s mouth again, but that’s the only thing that matters.

He realizes it then and there: what those unanswered, fluttering emotions developing within him are.

_Love._

It always has been since the beginning and now he’s put a name on it.

Sam’s in love with his big brother. With Dean.

And that’s enough.

He bends down, leaving a chaste kiss on Dean’s lips as if it were a final goodbye. Because it is.

Sam grins.

There’s a crack and it’s pitch black once again.

\--

Sam’s eyes slowly open to the familiar ceiling above him. He’s not surprised anymore, but there’s still the sour tinge of regret lying deep in his throat. Fingers circle around his neck, recalling the place where the bone had snapped in half. Mattress hard against his back while the sheets are soft across bare skin revealed by boxers and t-shirts. The empty engulfs the room in a never ending pit. Peaceful so to say and it’s the first time in forever that he’s felt this serenity.

It’s like he understands the entire universe now-no more questions needed to satisfy the thirst for curiosity-and he does.

Because Sam has been able to apprehend the most important thing of all: love. The love for his brother.

Dean enters the door with that grin and Sam wants to kiss him again. Hold him in his arms until they wither away into corpses, become one in the soil creates the earth. He wants to adore him-lock him away so no other being could lay their eyes on this majestic being that’s raised him. Sam would sacrifice himself if it meant protecting that smile.

And that love is more fatal than death itself.

\--

“Dean, I think that it’s a shapeshifter and a ghost,” Sam says while they travel through the woods, grip around the wooden stick tightening as he speaks. Another risk that he’s sure won’t cause ripples larger than he can manage.

His brother’s head spins towards him while raising a brow that slowly turns into a smirk.

“How do you know that?”

“Just trust me.”

Sam doesn’t know what expression he’s wearing, but it makes Dean go solemn as he nods before continuing their journey. This time they actually arrive where the body lies under the ground; it’s surrounded by trees that seem to loom over them, decaying leaves scattered across the dirt.

“Well, let’s get digging,” Dean says and Sam just rams the shovel into the floor as he scoops up the layers of soil. He can feel when the ghost comes searching for them-chill rising through his spine as breath freezes under the presence-, but he continues digging because that body is the only way to save them.

Shouts and grunts resound in his ears accompanied by the swooshing of swings in midair. After a few more chunks of dirt, Sam can finally see bones, throwing the shovel to the top as he uncovers the rest with his hands.

“Sam hurry up!”

And he’s lifting himself out of the grave, pouring out the salt stored in his pockets, and lighting a match that drops from his fingers to the skeleton below him. There’s high pitched screams of agony that he turns to meet, but he only catches the exhaust of the fading poltergeist and Dean standing there. Back to him in the worn out leather jacket that covers the muscular build underneath. His chest expands with each heavy breath from perfect lips. Sweat shining as it slides down the soft curves of Dean’s pale face.

Sam can’t breathe all over again.

Then a guttural howl burst into their ears, eerily similar to the voice that would hurl orders at them.

_Dad._

Nothing is said as the two run towards the noise and Sam can feel a sinking sensation in his stomach while a fuzziness reverberates through his body. It can’t be Dad. Can’t be. Just another idiotic adult that decided to wander through the forest at night who accidentally got attacked by a wolf. That has to be it.

But his vision betrays him as they find Dad, lying face down upon the ground with crimson splattered across clothes and skin as the pure lights from above paint across the grime. Hopes crumble within him, lies that he told himself wiped away with the blatant truth that he wished to avoid. Dean’s movement breaks Sam’s eyes out of the spell as his big brother goes to wrap his arms around their father.

“Dad!”

Dean drops to the floor as hands flip Dad around and into his lap. Eyes find the wounds-that range from stabs and holes in the skin-across the body especially to the abdomen and the legs. Just like how Sam was.

“N-No,” Sam chokes out, trembling under shock. “this isn’t right”

“Get to the car, Sam!” Dean’s shouting, glaring over to Sam with clear rage that’s pointed at himself for not being here. For not being the glue that keeps them alive.“There should be a first aid kit in the trunk.”

Scurrying away from the scene, Sam rushes over to the where the Impala is parked. He cracks the trunk open without any problems, first aid kit easy to find due to past use. There isn’t going to be enough supplies in there to save Dad from the verge of death. He knows that. Experienced it himself.

He only has one option.

Flicking open the kit, Sam plucks the painkillers from the box, and rushes over to the backseat to grab a couple can beers from the back. Popping four pills at a time in his mouth as he chugs down the fizzy, disgusting alcohol that burns his throat, setting his stomach on fire. It takes three cans to shove it all down and now the world is becoming blurrier by the second. He tumbles to the ground and curling himself on the floor, bracing for impact, like a puppy that’s just been kicked; smell of gasoline and gunpowder permanent in his nose. _The smell of home._

Then Sam’s adrenaline finally runs out and his stomach stirs in revulsion from the mixture that he just swallowed, yearning to puke out his internal organs in hopes of survival. But Sam won’t give it that pleasure.

“Sammy!” He can hear his brother shouting, but it sounds more of a whisper than anything. His sight is bleary, deforming into unknown shapes that he no longer recognizes. The only thing he can discern is Dean. There are water droplets building under familiar lashes. Short, fair blonde hair darker than he remembers.

“No, I can’t lose you too.”

Sam wants to say that he won’t be losing him. That he’ll be alright and they’ll see each other again. Wipe away those tears that cry in out the pain that Sam bears.

“I’ll save you,” Dean tells him, pulling Sam into his arms and gingerly caressing his shriveling body that continues to fade as the toxic brew boils in his stomach. They’re so close now that Sam could connect their lips together again if he had the strength to push his head forward. But at least now he can see the features of big brother that he already knows to the last detail.

It’s strange though. He doesn’t recall the flecks of gold in those irises before. Has only seen the pure green that would imitate a forest in the springtime. And now there's blacks which are swirling into recognizable numbers around edges as two arrows are circling around where the pupils should be.

There’s clocks in Dean’s eyes.

Why didn’t Sam realize that sooner?

Those clocks in his brother’s irises are rewinding now as a bright light engulfs them both.

Sam will live to see another today.


End file.
